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This fic is based on this meme (that's right, a meme). Thank you to the creator of this beautiful meme, which was originally posted in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Shitposts (facebook).

 ~

Staring, whispering, pointing, and even taunting were all behaviors that Harry Potter, by his fourth year at Hogwarts, was well used to. And now he could add wearing annoying little badges to that list. It seemed all throughout the castle, he couldn’t escape the green flashes that glinted at him from every direction. He had thought outracing a dragon on his top-of-the-line broomstick would have earned him a little bit of respect. Or at least silenced the people who claimed he didn’t deserve his spot in the Triwizard Tournament. But no such luck. “Potter Stinks” flashed at him everywhere he went.

“Oh, don’t bother with them,” Ron urged as they crossed the courtyard on their way to Charms, passing by a group of Hufflepuffs who were all sporting the badges on their robes. “You were brilliant flying past that dragon. They won’t admit it now, but loads of people were cheering for you in the stands.”

“He’s right,” Hermione said, casting a disapproving look at the Hufflepuffs. “Even Viktor was impressed by your flying. In fact, he seemed rather upset he didn't think of that himself."

Immediately, the expression on Ron’s face clouded over. “No one cares about what Viktor thinks. Why do you always have to bring up that tosser?”

“Oh, would you stop calling him that!” Hermione cried.

“Only if you’d stop hanging around him. It’s fraternizing with the enemy!”

“Would you listen to yourself, Ron."

Feeling too put out amidst the sea of “Potter Stinks” badges to put a stop to his friends’ bickering, Harry remained silent. They were just passing the large beech tree that sprawled through the middle of the courtyard when a clear, cold voice rang out.

“Are you trash, Potter?”

They turned to find Draco Malfoy lounging on one of the tree's lower branches, a crowd of Slytherins milling about beneath him.

“Speaking of tossers,” Ron muttered.

Not feeling remotely in the mood to put up with Malfoy today, Harry tried to hurry past but found the path blocked by Crabbe and Goyle. Sighing, he turned resignedly to the tree, where Malfoy was watching him with glittering gray eyes.

“Are you meant to look cool up there,” Harry called up to him, “because you actually look rather stupid.”

With more grace than Harry would have expected, Malfoy swung down with a whoosh and landed cleanly in front of him.

“Are you trash, Potter?” he repeated.

A bright green badge on Malfoy’s chest caught Harry’s eye.

“Oh, ha ha,” he said dully, “because ‘Potter Stinks’?”

“No, babe, it’s ’cause I want to take you out.”

Harry blinked. What had Malfoy just said? He looked around, utterly perplexed, wondering if anyone else had heard that, or whether the stress of the tournament was finally getting to him. Ron and Hermione seemed just as flummoxed as he was as they exchanged looks, but the Slytherins were all looking as though Malfoy had said something completely normal.

“What?” said Harry stupidly.

“I said,” Malfoy drawled, taking a step forward, coming close enough that Harry could smell the light, expensive scent coming off him. “Are you trash, Potter? ’Cause I’d like to take you out.” He leaned forward. “Babe.”

Harry flinched.

“Babe?” Ron repeated incredulously.

“What are you talking about?” Harry said hotly, too aware of all the people gathered around them. From the corner of his eye he could see Professor Moody watching them from afar,  his piercing blue eye like a spotlight, and suddenly he was desperate to get away from this conversation.

“Stop being dense, Potter,” Malfoy said in a bored tone. “You’re trash, so I’d like to take you out.” He reached out a hand, and before Harry could do anything, the hand was in his hair, combing it back in a rather intimate manner. Harry jerked backward, backpedaling into Ron and sending them both sprawling onto the grass. Ron grabbed at his foot, howling a couple swear words, and the Slytherins all burst out laughing, Malfoy sinking nearly to the ground as he shrieked, tears streaming from his eyes.

Ears flaming, Harry pulled Ron up. “Come on,” he mumbled as he pulled him toward Hermione. “It was just a stupid prank.” The three of them pushed past the Slytherins and continued down the walkway towards Charms, Harry keenly avoiding Moody’s eye. 

“Babe?” Harry said that night as he, Ron, and Hermione sat in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room. The word had been echoing through his head all evening, making it rather difficult to concentrate on the Transfiguration essay he was trying to write. That and all the noise. Fred and George were demonstrating a new product they had invented called Hiccupping Humbugs and were handing them out to anyone who would try them, so the common room was filled with a chorus of hiccuping students.

Ron perked up as though he’d been waiting for Harry to bring it up.

“Well, if it’s some new prank he’s come up with, it’s very stupid. ‘Babe,’” he spat like it was a dirty word. “What on earth was he thinking?”

Hermione set down her quill thoughtfully. “It was very peculiar, wasn't it? I mean, he was obviously flirting with Harry. But whether or not he meant it . . .”

“Flirting?!” Harry shouted, then looked around in panic to see if anyone had heard. Luckily, the hiccupping was so loud no one had noticed. He continued in a lower voice, “Malfoy wasn't flirting with me. That’s—that’s—"

“Ridiculous?” Hermione proffered. “Of course it is, but think about it. The pick-up line. Calling you ‘babe.’ And, of course, there was the bit where he touched your hair.”

The memory of Malfoy’s slim fingers dragging through his hair flashed through his mind, and Harry couldn't stop the little shiver that raced up his spine.

“I dunno,” Ron said with a determined look on his face, “but there’s no way he was actually flirting with Harry. He was just trying to mess with him 'cause he's a git."

“Yeah,” Harry said. He was starting to feel a little sick by all of this. A thought struck him and he groaned. “Oh god. What if he does it again?”

To his surprise, Hermione started snickering. “Well,” she said with a slightly uncharacteristic giggle, "you could flirt back with him.”

Ron's mouth dropped open, and he gaped at her soundlessly for a few moments before recovering. “Perhaps I didn’t hear you right over all the hiccups,” he said angrily. “I thought you just told Harry to flirt back with Malfoy.”

Hermione shrugged. “It was a tactic that was obviously designed to fluster Harry, and I'm sorry to say it was quite effective." Harry dropped his head into his hands. "What I was suggesting is that you could do the same to him, flirt with him and try to fluster him back." She snickered again. "I wonder what he would do if you actually flirted back with him.” A slightly dreamy expression crossed her face as gazed into space for a few moments, but upon seeing the horrified expressions on Harry's and Ron's faces, she shook her head. “But you’re right, of course. It’s a terrible idea. Harry has hardly any skills with flirting, and Malfoy might not be the best person to practice on.”

Ron reeled back, looking scandalized. Harry was considering asking George for a Hiccuping Humbug to get out of this conversation.

“No, you should just ignore him,” Hermione said with a tone of finality. “You have plenty of things to worry about besides Malfoy. Like figuring out the secret behind that egg.”

She looked at Harry meaningfully, and Harry groaned and turned away to watch Fred, who was waving his hands like a conductor in front of a small group that was trying to hiccup their way through “Something Wicked This Way Comes.”

Why did Malfoy have to make things so complicated all of a sudden? At least the badges were straightforward. This new tactic was anything but. Malfoy couldn’t be flirting with him. It was just too ridiculous. But as the song ended and the common room burst into applause as Fred took a bow, he had a sinking feeling that Hermione was right: this was a bizarre new way to bully him and unfortunately he was in way over his head.

For the rest of the week, Harry did his best to forget the incident. He kept his back to the Slytherins in the Great Hall during mealtimes. He ignored a chortling Seamus, who asked him to please pass the ketchup, babe. And whenever he saw a flash of silver-blond hair in the corridors, he simply veered down a different one, one time (through lack of an available corridor to escape down) even ducking behind a statue—though in that particular instance, the silver-blond turned out to be only Fleur.

He couldn’t avoid Malfoy forever, though, as they shared Potions together. All weekend long, a knot would form in his stomach every time he thought about their looming lesson on Monday. Surely Malfoy wouldn't try and flirt with him again, would he? No, he reasoned to himself, somewhat desperately. The incident in the courtyard was just a one-off attempt to embarrass him. And it had worked, so surely Malfoy had gotten enough kicks and wouldn't try anything weird again. Besides, Harry couldn't help but ponder, didn't he get embarrassed about all of this, too?

As he made his way down to the dungeons Monday afternoon, Harry decided to take Hermione's advice. The "ignore him" advice, not the "flirt back with him" advice. If Malfoy tried anything, he would simply ignore him. He wouldn’t make a fool of himself trying to flirt back.

Not giving Malfoy the opportunity to do something before class, he lingered in the corridor, slipping into the dungeons just as the bell rang. As he sat next to Ron and started setting his cauldron up, he chanced a glance up at Malfoy's usual spot toward the front of the classroom. His back was to Harry, and he was busy setting up ingredients. Safe for now.

The lecture began, and before long, the classroom was filled with the sound of hissing cauldrons, fluttering textbook pages, and the blunt chopping of ingredients. Harry watched Malfoy intently over his cauldron, waiting for him to do something suspicious. Oddly, Malfoy didn't looked back even once, which in itself was suspicious. Usually, he turned around his seat at least three times a lesson to leer at him.

It was halfway through the lesson, when Harry was busy counting stirs and had forgotten to keep watch for Malfoy that a parchment crane came flying through the air. It looped lazily in front of his cauldron, drifted toward him, and dove into his lap.

Harry grabbed the crane, accidentally crumpling it in his fist, his gaze snapping to the blond head at the front of the room, which was bent over the textbook. No one else seemed to have noticed the crane. Snape was on the other side of the room, sneering at the contents of Neville Longbottom’s cauldron. Ron was staring at his potion with utmost concentration, counting his number of stirs under his breath. And Hermione was farther down the table, scanning the textbook.

Satisfied that no one was watching, Harry unfolded the crane to find a message.

Are you a Dementor, Potter?

The words erased themselves, and new ones appeared:

Because I’d die if you kissed me.

Harry’s hand jerked, accidentally knocking over a bottle of Gurdyroot Extract. The following scramble to keep it from rolling off the table caused a slight commotion, attracting more than a few gazes. He slammed the bottle back on the table, fervently ignoring the curious looks until they all turned away. When he finally looked up, his face steaming, Malfoy was gazing at him over his cauldron, a look of amusement on his face. As Harry stared back, Malfoy winked at him and pursed his lips in an air-kiss.

“What’s that?” Ron asked, reaching for the parchment.

“Nothing!” Harry shouted, flinging the parchment into the flame beneath his cauldron. This, unfortunately, made the flames rear up, causing his potion to emulate a volcano, Snape to deduct five points from Gryffindor, and Harry to wallow in embarrassment once again.

It was from that day on that Malfoy sent him a flirty message every Potions class. In their next lesson, another parchment crane landed in his lap while Snape’s back was turned. Harry opened it and read:

I know why you survived Avada Kevadra. It’s because you’re drop-dead gorgeous.

Harry Vanished it on the spot, ducking behind his cauldron so that Malfoy couldn't see his flaming face.

The following week, he received:

Your smile is like Expelliarmus. It disarms me.

And—

You don’t have to say Lumos to turn me on.

—arrived via yet another parchment crane the class after that.

Harry wasn’t sure what had gotten into Malfoy. The notes were clearly pranks. He didn’t actually think Harry was gorgeous or disarming, did he?

By the third Potions lesson, Harry had started to relax, had even started looking forward to them. They were funny. And, more critically, they were private, which Harry could handle. Though that made things even more puzzling, didn't it? Didn’t Malfoy like making large public spectacles of him? Why wasn't he trying to embarrass Harry in front of everyone like he had in the courtyard? If nobody was seeing the notes, and if nobody was pointing and laughing at him, did that make them . . . not pranks? What then?

Harry would even hazard to say the notes were—friendly. Which was not an attitude he ever expected to take toward Malfoy, but he very much preferred this new stuff over the usual bullying. Even if it was very confusing.

The next lesson, they were in the middle of a lecture on poison antidotes when Harry unfolded his latest crane to read:

Did you say Petrificus Totalis? Because you’ve made me stiff.

Harry burst out laughing. Then stopped immediately, freezing in his seat as every student in the classroom turned around to stare at him. A shocked, sickening silence fell; Snape had been in the middle of speaking. From the front of the classroom, he turned to Harry with a somewhat triumphant expression that promised imminent and painful doom.

Harry tried his best to look as innocent as possible, but the damage had been done. With brisk, snappish steps, Snape strode toward him, his robes billowing behind him.

“Oh I don’t think so, Potter,” he said as Harry shoved the note into his pocket.

Feeling as though he’d rather drink his unfinished potion than give Snape the note, Harry threw it into his bubbling cauldron just as Snape stopped in front of him.

“You forget, Potter,” Snape said with a nasty grin, “that we live in the Wizarding World.”

He flicked his wand, ad to Harry’s horror, the parchment rose out of the cauldron, shook off the potion, and started unfolding itself in midair.

The silence before had been shocked, but now it was almost gleeful, as everyone waited on tenterhooks to see what would happen. Harry glanced anxiously at Malfoy, who looked completely calm, amused even. He turned his attention back to the parchment. The folds parted to reveal—nothing. It was blank.

Harry closed him eyes as relief flooded through him.

“Specialis revelio,” Snape muttered, pointing his wand at the parchment. It remained blank. From behind Snape's back, Malfoy flashed him a grin.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” Snape said, his mouth twisting in a grimace. “Any more outbursts and it will be detention.”

With another flick of his wand, the parchment fell back into Harry’s potion, which hissed and molted into an off-yellow sludge with bits of disintegrated parchment floating to the surface. At the end of the lesson, Harry begrudgingly corked a sample, knowing he had failed for the day.

After that incident, Harry became a bit less enthusiastic about the notes. Malfoy seemed to have gotten bored with them too, because no more came for the rest of the week.

If Harry were to be honest with himself, he didn't quite know how to feel about the whole situation. For some reason, he hadn’t told Ron and Hermione about the notes. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed. It was just, he was sure Malfoy hadn’t told anyone about them either, and if Malfoy hadn't told anyone, he felt he shouldn't as well. The notes were their secret, something harmless and fun, and some selfish part of him didn’t want to share it.

In any case, since no more seemed to be coming, Harry was ready to brush off the whole thing as a weird blip in Malfoy's otherwise hostile personality that was now over. At least, he contented himself with thinking, it seemed the danger of another public flirting spectacle had passed.

He had just come out of Divination and was headed for the library with Ron to meet Hermione, and was just thinking that maybe he ought to give his egg another go that night when something hit the back of his legs, sending him flying into Dean in front of him and sending his bag skidding across the floor, spilling quills, ink, and other odds and ends all over the place.

"All right there, Harry?" Dean asked as he bent down to pick up one of his spellbooks.

Harry looked around wildly for whatever had bumped into him, but there didn't seem to be anything unusual, nothing on the floor to trip him up.

"Yeah, fine,” he muttered, crawling to retrieve his lost supplies. Unfortunately, they were in one of the main corridors, packed with a stream of students trying to get to their next class, so the disruption had formed a bit of a clog in the general flow.

“Here you are,” Dean said, handing Harry his inkwell. But then he froze, his eyes narrowing as they fell on something behind Harry. Harry spun around to find Draco Malfoy holding out one of his quills.

“Falling for me, are you, Potter?” Malfoy said in a loud voice.

Harry scrambled up, snatching the quill. No, not this again.

“What do you want?” he snapped as dozens of heads turned in their direction.

Malfoy grinned. “So tetchy, Potter. I’m just being nice to you.”

“Yeah, by sending a trip jinx at me?” Harry replied, putting two and two together about his sudden fall.

“By asking if you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend.”

“I—what?”

Far behind him, grumblings were starting to arise of students complaining about the holdup. But those in their vicinity had fallen silent, all gleefully watching the scene. Harry could feel his face start to heat up at the giggling and guffawing rising up around them.

“I said, do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?” Malfoy repeated, stepping closer. Harry tried to step backward but was blocked by a wall of his classmates. “On--" Malfoy took another step, bringing him dangerously close. "A--" He leaned forward, his eyes leering, "Date.”

Harry flinched.                   

“Date?!” Ron thundered.

Malfoy's head snapped to Ron, his lip curling. “A date with Harry, not you, Weaselbee.”

Ron' reeled back, his face paling. “Harry'd never go on a date with—WHY THE HELL ARE WE EVEN DISCUSSING THIS?”

Harry elbowed him to shut up. The last thing he needed was Rita Skeeter getting wind of him being asked out on a date by Malfoy.

Malfoy's face smoothed back into a sly expression as his gaze returned to Harry. “So what'll it be, Potter? I thought we could take a stroll through the village, have a drink at the Three Broomsticks. Maybe . . . polish our broomsticks together afterward. What do you say?”

“No!” Harry shouted as a shriek of laughter burst out from the crowd.

Malfoy shrugged coolly. “Have it your way.” He brushed past them, sending a smirk over his shoulder as he disappeared into the crowd.

Harry stood staring after him in complete shock. More laughter bubbled up around him, breaking him out of his shock. He grabbed Ron and dragged him against the flow of students toward the opposite stairway, which—blessedly—was relatively free of students.

“Why’s he doing that stuff again?” Ron complained angrily as they made their way down. “At this point, I don’t know who’s looking like the bigger idiot, you or Malfoy.”

“Me, obviously,” Harry said glumly. “He doesn’t actually want to go on a date with me. It’s just a spectacle.”

“It’s weird, though," Ron said. "It’s like he’s not even embarrassed.”

Harry continued without saying anything. How Malfoy could do that without being embarrassed was beyond him. Why couldn't he have just stuck with passing notes in Potions? he thought miserably. Harry had been so happy with simply passing notes. He hardly expected Malfoy would try a public stunt again—especially something so ridiculous.

“You know, it might not be a bad idea, what Hermione said,” Ron said as they reached the first floor, “about, you know . . .” He glanced furtively from side to side. ". . . flirting,” he whispered in the same fearful tone he used when saying You Know Who.

Harry snorted. “You want me to flirt with Malfoy?”

“Well, yeah! He did it first. I’d love to see the look on his face if you actually flirted back with him.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said doubtfully. “I’m probably not any good at it. I’d just make myself look like an even bigger idiot.”

Ron shot him a lazy smirk. “That’s because you haven’t tried it yet. Here, practice with me.”

“Practice . . . practice what?”

“Well, flirting, Harry.”

“You want us to flirt with each other?”

“Practice flirting. Oh come on," Ron said exasperatedly as Harry started laughing. "It won’t be that bad. I mean, we’re both blokes, so it’ll be a little weird, I suppose—”

“It’ll be a little weird regardless,” Harry said.

“—but rather that than get Hermione involved. She’d laugh herself silly if she heard us trying to flirt with each other.”

At that point, they had reached the library and fell into a hush as they entered and headed for the back, where Hermione was set up with a large stack of books and a long, curling piece of parchment. As they walked by the rows of tables filled with students, Harry caught more than a few upturned faces oggling at him and snickering as he passed. Had news really traveled that fast?

“Just leave it to me,” Ron whispered as they sat down across from Hermione. “We’ll go to the practice Defense classroom after dinner and do it there.”

Hermione looked up from her essay. "Do what? Did anything happen—"

"No!" Harry and Ron both said immediately. Hermione's eyebrows rose.

Harry quickly bent down to rummage through his bag for his homework to avoid her quizzical gaze. He brought it out, slapped it onto the table a little too roughly, and got to work, feeling as though he probably would rather get shrieked at by his egg the whole evening than do whatever Ron was planning.

At dinner, he and Ron ate a hasty helping of pot roast with mashed potatoes. Then, fumbling with the excuse of needing to polish Harry’s broomstick—he barely managed to say it with a straight face, but Malfoy was the one who had put the phrase into his head earlier—left a suspicious-looking Hermione to finish her custard tart alone.

They snuck into the practice Defense classroom, and Harry locked the door before walking over to Ron, who had dumped his bag onto one of the tables.

“Let’s get this over with. What have you got?” Harry said.

Ron pulled a long roll of parchment out of his bag and handed it to Harry, who unfurled it and started reading; it was inscribed with a plethora of raunchy pick-up lines.

“Wow,” he laughed, genuinely impressed with the list. “You really outdid yourself.”

Ron grinned as he peered at the parchment over Harry's shoulder. “Yeah, I asked around. Got a bunch of good ones from Seamus. I’d’ve asked Fred and George, but they probably would’ve given me advice on courting a baboon or something. See any you like?”

Harry scanned the lines, snickering at each one.

“'I can make you moan like Myrtle.' Who comes up with these?"

“This one’s my favorite,” Ron said, pointing to I don’t need Accio to make you come.

They spent a few minutes guffawing over the list before Ron cleared his throat and said with a suddenly business-like tone, “Well let’s get started. I’ll go first, then, shall I?” Harry nodded and faced him expectantly. Ron took a deep, steadying breath, looked Harry in the eye, and said in a seductive voice:

“You know Platform Nine and Three-Quarters? Well, I know something else with the exact same measurement.”

Harry grimaced. “This feels very wrong.”

“It’s supposed to feel sexy.”

“No offense, but I really don’t want to associate you with the word ‘sexy.’”

Ron shrugged. “Fair enough. You try one then.”

Harry consulted the list and settled on one of the safer-sounding ones.

“Er, are you a Golden Snitch?” he said nervously. Ron waved him on encouragingly. “Because . . . I’ve been seeking for you my whole life?"

“You’ve got to say it with more confidence, Harry! Like this.”

Ron cleared his throat, then leaned casually against the table and fixed Harry with a schmoozy look that had Harry feeling very sorry for anyone who would find themselves on the receiving end of it in the future.

“Are you a Golden Snitch?” he purred, taking Harry’s hand; Harry looked up at him, perplexed. “Because I’ve been seeking for you my whole life.”

The look in Ron’s eyes was a touch too manic, his grin slightly too wide, but on the whole, it was a lot better than Harry had done.

“That wasn’t too bad.”

Ron grinned. “Now you try again.”

“Okay,” Harry said nervously.

“Give me a sexy look." Harry tried his best to give Ron a sexy look, but Ron shook his head fervently. "No, no, you look like you’re gonna pass out. Try to smile. Er—maybe not with so much teeth. And don’t look at me straight on, it’s weird, tilt your head like . . . okay that’s too far, now you just look shifty—blimey, you’re bad at this, Harry." Harry groaned and shook out all his limbs to reset himself. Gripping the knob of one of the chairs, he looked up at Ron with what he hoped was a moderately sexy expression. "Okay,' Ron said, "now look into my eyes and say it like I’m the girl of your dreams.”

“Are you a Golden Snitch—” Harry said matter-of-factly.

“More sultry like . . .”

Harry lifted his voice. “Are you a Golden Snitch?”

“There you go!”

“Because I’ve been sneaking for you—seeking for you—”

“It’s okay, try again."

Feeling slightly bolder now, Harry flashed Ron a quavering smile and placed his hand awkwardly on the table before moving it back to the chair. “Are you a Golden Snitch?” Ron nodded vigorously. Harry added a sultry twang to his voice. “Because I’ve been seeking for you my whole life.”

“Harry!”

Harry upended the chair in his haste to turn around. Ron yelped and unsheathed his wand with a wild flourish that would have put Gilderoy Lockhart to shame.

Standing in the doorway, her mouth gawping open in an expression very similar to the one she'd had in second year when he had been Petrified, was Hermione.

“I thought you locked the door!” Ron hissed at Harry.

“I did!” Harry hissed back.

“You know she can do Alohomora.”

“Please, Ron, first-years can do Alohomora.”

Grimacing, they turned to face Hermione with twin expressions of apprehension.

“Now Hermione,” Ron started, “it’s not what it looks like . . .”

A single giggle burst out of Hermione. Then another one came, and soon they were pouring out of her in a steady stream until she was practically shrieking, hunching over and clutching at her stomach.

“All right, get it out,” Ron grumbled. "What did I tell you," he moaned to Harry, "she'd laugh herself silly."

“Goodness, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that hard,” Hermione wheezed, her hand still on her stomach. “What on earth are you doing?!”

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at the floor. Ron suddenly became interested in righting the chair Harry had knocked over.

Hermione tutted. "Come on, out with it.”

Harry shrugged, keenly avoiding her gaze. “We were—we were just . . . Don’t make us say it.” Hermione raised an eyebrow. Harry sighed and blurted it all in one go. “We were practicing flirting so we could get back at Malfoy like you said. But it’s . . . it’s gone all weird.”

Hermione groaned in sympathy. “Oh, Harry. Stop wasting your time with Malfoy. Don’t you see what he’s doing? You’re more worried about him than the egg. You still haven’t figured out that clue, have you?” Harry sheepishly ruffled the back of his hair, now feeling guilty in addition to embarrassed. “This is precisely what he wanted, to distract you. Next time he flirts with you, just ignore him.”

“Well you try ignoring him when he’s calling you 'babe' and asking you out on dates in the middle of the corridor and winking at you from across the room,” Harry shouted.

Ron frowned. “He’s winking at you?”

Hermione shook her head. “Harry, you need to focus on the Second Task. Don’t give him anything to work off of. And for goodness’ sake, learn to control your blushing!”

After his failed lesson in flirting, Harry was more determined than ever to avoid Malfoy. But he needn’t have worried. After the ordeal in the corridor, there were no more public spectacles and no more notes.

As Christmas approached, new worries arose. The Second Task was still a healthy way away, but suddenly looming was the Yule Ball. Harry managed to navigate dress robes, a bewildering and hilarious waltz lesson with Professor McGonagall, and even getting a date. He was relieved Parvati Patil had said yes, but he was feeling increasingly sorry for her as the night wore on and he still hadn’t asked her for a single dance.

If possible, Parvati’s sister, Padma, looked even more morose next to Ron, who had spent the majority of the ball throwing dirty looks at Viktor Krum as he spun Hermione around on the dance floor.

“Why don’t you just ask Hermione to dance?” Harry suggested gently. “I’m sure she’d say yes.”

“Yeah, and why don’t you go ask Malfoy?” Ron spat.

Harry flushed, looking guiltily down at his lap. Luckily, Ron was too busy glowering at Viktor Krum to notice.

Malfoy had shown up to the ball in a stunning set of navy robes trimmed with silver embroidery and matching silver buttons. His platinum hair had been parted to the left and slicked back at the sides, with his bangs brushing lightly onto his forehead.

If Ron had asked him, Harry would have said Malfoy looked like a massive, preening peacock, but deep down, he couldn’t help but think he actually looked . . . dashing. Which was a rather mortifying thought.

And while Ron had spent a large portion of the night sulking over Hermione, Harry had had his own private turmoils to deal with.

He thought it odd. When he first saw Cho Chang looking gorgeous and elegant on Cedric Diggory’s arm, his heart had swelled with jealousy. But as the night wore on, he found his gaze increasingly drawn away from Cho and toward the twirling pair of Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. For once, Malfoy’s face was devoid of its usual sneer. He looked happy, and it—well, it suited him very much. As Harry watched them, a new jealousy started prickling at him. He fought to keep it down. It was Malfoy, for crying out loud.

Eventually a Durmstrang student stole Padma away from Ron, not that he noticed, and Parvati edged slowly away from Harry until she, too, disappeared. Cho waltzed in front of him again, but he found himself impatiently craning around her so he wouldn't lose sight of Malfoy.

He hated admitting it, but he missed Malfoy’s notes in class. It was nice having interactions with him that weren’t dreadful. And part of him deep down was pleased by the compliments, even if he didn’t think Malfoy actually meant them. No one had ever called him drop-dead gorgeous or his smile disarming before, even if it was just a stupid joke.

And then to have Malfoy show up to the ball looking like a stupid smug prince.

Harry shook his head violently. He couldn’t actually like Malfoy. That would be ridiculous. That would be awful and stupid and—

He jerked his head up and cast his gaze around; Malfoy had vanished.

“I’m trying to work out, Potter,” said a haughty voice in Harry’s ear, causing him to jump, “whether you’re a terrible dancer, or just a terrible date.”

“Leave us alone, Malfoy,” Ron said, his gaze still fixed on Hermione. “I’m warning you, we’re not in the mood.”

A horrible grin slid onto Malfoy’s face. Sensing danger, Harry blurted out, “You’re right. I’m a terrible dancer.”

Malfoy looked back at him and smirked. “I guess you need a broomstick to look even halfway coordinated. Shall I fetch you one?”

Harry crossed him arms and turned so he was facing the dance floor. Hermione had told him to ignore Malfoy, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

“Caught you staring at me, Potter.”

Harry stiffened. Thankfully, Malfoy had said it quietly enough that Ron hadn't heard. “Glaring at you, more like,” he said through his teeth.

“Do you want to dance? We can if you want. I’m sure Pansy wouldn’t mind.”

Malfoy held out his hand. Harry stared at it dumbly. Did he actually think Harry would take it? A recklessness seized him. What would Malfoy do if Harry took it? Would he snatch his hand back, embarrassed? Would he actually take Harry onto the dance floor and continue on with this farce?

Harry grimaced. He wouldn't take the chance of that happening. However, perhaps it was time to put his flirting lessons with Ron to good use, considering they were in relative privacy. He swiveled back around so he was facing Malfoy and leaned an arm casually against the back of the chair. Looking up into his pale gray eyes, he smirked said in a lightly sultry tone, “But aren’t I too uncoordinated? Wouldn’t I just embarrass you?”

A single corner of Malfoy’s mouth turned up, and Harry instantly realized his mistake: no one could out-smirk Draco Malfoy, or out-flirt him. If you could call that feeble attempt flirting. And why was he trying to flirt with Malfoy anyway?

Malfoy looked entirely too pleased for Harry's liking. “You're right, I normally wouldn't be caught dead dancing with a Gryffindor, let alone an uncoordinated buffoon like you.” Then his gaze turned serious, all playfulness dropping from his expression. “Maybe I’d make an exception for you, Potter.”

Harry's eyes widened. He turned back to the dance floor, feeling hot under his robes.

Malfoy let out a light chuckle, the gust from it reaching Harry's ear—or had he just imagined it? “You’re right. You’re probably so hopeless that even I couldn’t make you look good.” With that, he got up and sauntered over to a group of Slytherins over by the drinks.

Harry watched him go, relieved but also mildly—disappointed? What if he had taken Malfoy's hand and let him pull him to the dance floor? A vision entered his head of himself dancing with Draco, of Draco pulling him close, of his hand resting on Harry's waist, guiding his steps. Their other hands would be clasped, their faces close together. Perhaps he could make that genuine smile appear on Draco’s face . . .

“I need some air,” he gasped to Ron.

“Me too,” Ron grunted, and they made their way to the doors. As Harry burst out into the cool night air of the veranda, it was like sticking his head in a bucket of water, and suddenly he was sober again. Imagining dancing with Malfoy like that. What in Merlin's name had he been thinking?

Ron and Harry wandered silently around the courtyard, which was decorated with sculpted hedges and fairy lights, each chewing over their thoughts. At the sight of Fleur Delacour, Ron scarpered, leaving Harry to witness a horrifyingly awkward conversation between Hagrid and Madame Maxime.

As he made his way slowly back to the castle, lost in his thoughts, he came upon a small pool with a quaint bridge stretching across it, lit by the glow of dancing fairies. Aimlessly, he strolled onto the bridge, stopping halfway across to lean over the railing and watch the fairies skimming across the surface of the water below. The effect of their soft light was somewhat relaxing to his addled thoughts.

“Needed a breather, did you?”

Harry groaned as a familiar figure walked over to him from the other end of the bridge. Malfoy stopped next to him and leaned over the railing. “I'll admit, it’s a little hot in there, especially if you’ve been dancing. Not that you’ve had that problem.”

“What are you doing?” Harry blurted, turning to face him. “Why have you flirting with me? Is this all some stupid prank?”

Malfoy was still leaned over the railing, the cool evening breeze ruffling his hair. “Sure, Potter. Getting you into trouble will never lose its appeal." He straightened and turned to face him. "But making you all flustered . . .” He reached suddenly for Harry's hair, which Harry swiftly deflected. Malfoy laughed. “Now that is truly amusing.”

“But are you . . .”

Harry let out a frustrated sigh. Are you gay? Are you not worried people will find all this strange? That was what he wanted to ask. “Are you mad?” he muttered instead.

Malfoy leaned back over the railing. From somewhere within his robes, he brought out a flower and absentmindedly started twirling it between his fingers, opening and closing his hands around it and making it bloom and fold back into a bud over and over.

“Want it?” he said finally, holding out the blossom.

“No,” Harry said automatically.

Draco let the flower fall into the pool, where it was descended upon by the curious fairies. “Good night,” he said abruptly, standing. Then he walked back across the bridge and disappeared into the night.

Feeling flustered, Harry leaned back over the railing, moping as he watched the flower drift below him, trying to figure out why he felt so confused about everything.

After that, Harry tried to force his feelings down. He liked Malfoy. No, he didn't, he insisted to himself. He couldn’t like Malfoy. For one, they had been enemies for years. Two, Malfoy was a boy, which left Harry with all sorts of confused thoughts because—he didn't actually mind that Malfoy was a boy. And three, he was a smarmy git, as Ron put it. But all of these points were moot because they completely glossed over the fact that Malfoy was a blood purist and a bully who had acted cruelly toward him and his friends in the past.

Harry was reminded vividly of this fact a few days later when he found Hagrid's face blasted all across the pages of the Daily Prophet along with a headline claiming he was a dangerous half-giant. Harry spent all of Care of Magical Creatures glaring at Malfoy, waiting for him to be his usual horrible self, for surely he would have something to say about the article. But upon catching his gaze, Malfoy merely rose his eyebrows. Even the rest of the fourth-year Slytherins remained silent on the issue, which Harry, Ron, and Hermione found completely bewildering.

Was Malfoy trying to be a more decent person? Was it all an act?

Whatever the reason, Harry was still determined to rid Malfoy from his mind and focus on the Second Task. Now that Christmas had passed, it felt like there was hardly any time to prepare.

He had figured out the egg thanks to Cedric, but now he was stuck with the problem of figuring out how to breathe underwater for an hour without dying. It didn’t seem like it should be so difficult. Surely someone had figured it out at some point. But the answer was proving elusive. Even the superpower of Hermione couldn’t rustle up a solution from the depths of the library.

“Do you think if I took a Hiccupping Humbug I wouldn’t have to do the task?” Harry said the night before the task as he sat with Hermione and Ron, flipping through what felt like his thousandth book.

“Think you’d do better with a Fainting Fancy, it’s their new one,” Ron said, slamming shut a large book titled Magical Medieval Methods Volume 1 and reaching for Volume 2.

At midnight, Ginny showed up to take Ron and Hermione to McGonagall's office. When they didn’t return, Harry started to panic. The hours were ticking by and still no answer had presented itself. He could imagine the glee on the Slytherins’ faces as he showed up to the task empty handed, the sound of the crowd laughing as he stood by the lake, clueless and unprepared.

The answer was there somewhere, he reassured himself, blearily rubbing his eyes.

It would just be on the next page . . .

There was a hand carding through his hair. It felt pleasant, soothing. Harry grunted sleepily, letting the fingers roam across his scalp, content to fall back asleep . . .

“Wake up, Potter,” a voice whispered in his ear. "You're late!"

Harry shot up, his heart pounding and his hand smacking at his head, swatting away the hand that had just retreated from his hair. Draco Malfoy laughed as he leaned against the library bookcase.

“What are you doing?” Harry shouted. “And why were you doing—that?”

“Settle down, Potter. I’m doing you a favor.”

“Yeah? What kind of favor?” Harry grumbled, flattening his hair. The trails left by Malfoy’s fingers felt like they had been etched into his scalp.

Clucking his tongue, Malfoy tapped his wand against the clock on the table, which was barely visible between the mountains of books. “Are you going to question me all day? Or are you going to do your Triwizard task?”

Harry stared at the clock, horrified. The challenge was in ten minutes. “I have to go!” he shouted, scrambling up, but Malfoy’s arm shot out, shoving him back down into the chair. “Got a solution to your problem, do you?” he sneered.

Harry glared at him, his chest heaving. “Get out of the way,” he said, though it came out a little weak.

Malfoy reached into his robes, brought out what looked to be a lump of tentacles, and held it out to Harry. Harry stared at it.

“What’s that?”

“It’s your solution. Before you go into the water, eat it.”

“What’ll that do,” Harry asked skeptically, “turn me into a squid?”

Malfoy smirked. “Something like that.”

Harry gingerly took the ball of tentacles. It squelched disturbingly in his hand. He couldn't imagine actually putting it in his mouth.

“Why are you helping me?” he demanded.

“How do you know I’m helping you? Maybe I’m just trying to make you look stupid. It isn’t hard, you know.”

Harry glared at him again, contemplating throwing the ball of tentacles at him. Malfoy darted his hand forward, and before Harry could stop it, it had reached his hair.

"MALFOY!" he seethed, shooting up from his chair and whipping his wand out.

"The task, Potter," Malfoy said sharply.

Harry paused. Absolutely boiling, but with no other option, he shot one last mistrustful look at him, dropped the lump in his pocket, and bolted out the door.

As he ran through the castle and down the sloping lawns towards the lake, his anger at Malfoy quickly leeched away, replaced by a sickening dread about the challenge ahead. Perhaps he should have just stayed asleep in the library, letting Malfoy run his fingers through his hair. That would probably be far more pleasant than what he was about to do. He could still feel the thin, wandering fingers in his hair and how good they had felt, how comforting.

He scolded himself. Now was not the time to be thinking about Draco Malfoy’s fingers.

At the edge of the lake, he skidded to a halt in front of a harried-looking Ludo Bagman, who ushered him onto a large dock, where the other three champions were gathered, each looking as gray as the water below them. Stands rose all around them, filled with students, looking like blocks of color as they sat by house. Harry scanned the rows of scarlet-and-gold-clad spectators, searching for Ron and Hermione. They weren’t there.

Bagman’s voice boomed across the lake, welcoming the crowd to the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament.

Harry wasn't listening; his gaze roved over the crowd again, still trying to find Hermione and Ron. Where were they? Why hadn't they come back from McGonagall's office?

Unwittingly, his eyes flicked to the green-and-silver-clad spectators, drawn immediately like a magnet to Malfoy's shining platinum head. He was watching Harry with a smug smile. Harry stared back, calculating whether or not to trust him.

Suddenly a cannon blasted and three bodies dove gracefully into the water.

Harry startled. He was the only one left on the dock. He dove into his pocket, bringing out the soggy lump of tentacles. He hadn’t even asked Malfoy what it was. Was it a plant? An animal? Was it alive? What if it was poisoned?

Before he could talk himself out of it, he shoved it into his mouth and chewed. His teeth ground through the dense wad, struggling to get through it, and he gagged as a putrid, mucky taste filled his mouth. Choking slightly, he looked wildly up at the Slytherins. Draco was looking down at him, his face smug. Harry’s stomach sank. He closed his eyes and chewed harder, trying to ignore the tittering that was starting to rise from the stands. He knew what it must look like: that the famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, youngest Triwizard champion and prized Gryffindor had absolutely no clue what he was doing.

He gave a very unpleasant swallow . . . and waited. The muttering of the crowd grew louder as nothing happened, and he stood shivering on the dock like a helpless idiot, and Merlin help him, he was trusting Draco Malfoy—

A strange shiver wracked through his body. A cold sensation was creeping across his neck, and it suddenly became very hard to breathe. His eyes darted up to the stands in panic. Had Malfoy really poisoned him?

Malfoy was watching him intently. Upon catching Harry's gaze, he patted his neck and stared at him pointedly. Gasping for air, Harry brought a hand to his own neck and felt three strange, horribly flappy horizontal slits. Those couldn't be . . . gills? He looked uncertainly up at Malfoy, who beckoned to the water with an incredulous look on his face.

Right. There wasn’t anything for it then.

Harry stepped forward, realizing too late that his hands and feet had grown elongated and webbed, and not very well suited for traveling on land. With all the grace of a newborn giraffe, he tumbled into the lake, where cold, refreshing water flooded mercifully through his new set of gills. He gulped air down quickly, trying to gain his bearings.

He could still see the crowd through the water—just shimmering blocks of color. He was sure Draco was now laughing along with the rest of the Slytherins. But the little wad of tentacles had worked. Was Malfoy truly trying to help him? Did he expect some kind of reward in return? Perhaps he just wanted to gloat that Harry couldn’t get through the task without his help.

Harry paddled his webbed feet experimentally and surged forward a few meters. Victor, Fleur, and Cedric were nowhere to be seen, and time was passing quickly. He kicked his feet and swam on, putting Draco Malfoy and whatever his motivations were out of his mind.

It was during dinner that night that Neville clued him in as to what he had ingested that had given him gills.

“But Harry, how did you manage to get your hands on gillyweed?” he asked, piling cottage pie onto his plate.

“Gillyweed?”

“Yeah, that plant you ate?”

So that’s what it was called. And it was a plant.

Ron was hunched over and shivering next to him. He had been complaining all dinner that there was still water in his ears. “You ate it and you didn’t know what it was?” he said.

Harry shrugged sheepishly.

“How did you get it?” Hermione asked, looking back to her usual self, save for frizzier-than-normal hair. If she still had water in her ears, she didn’t complain about it.

“Oh,” Harry said, suddenly flustered, “funny story, it was actually—” He cast around for inspiration. There was no way he was admitting that he had shoved something Draco Malfoy had given him into his mouth without knowing what it was. “It was . . . it was Dobby!”

“The house elf!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Brilliant!” Ron said.

“Yeah, Dobby!" Harry gasped. "I—I mentioned I needed to breathe underwater, and he just showed up with it. I don’t know how he got it.” The last part was true at least. He had no idea where Malfoy had gotten the gillyweed, though Snape's private cupboard seemed a likely possibility.

“Good thing,” Ron said, shoveling an entire half a potato into his mouth. “Otherwise I'd’ve been a goner.”

“Yeah, good thing,” Harry repeated.

Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy was chatting with Pansy Parkinson. As though he could sense Harry’s gaze, he looked up and, incredibly, winked. Harry’s fork and knife clattered to the floor, and he quickly dove to retrieve them. “Still got your webbed fingers, do you, Harry?” Seamus hollered as he emerged from under the table, red-faced. He refused to look anywhere near the Slytherins for the rest of the meal.

With the Second Task completed, Harry finally had some time to breathe. Or so he thought. Valentine’s Day was approaching, and he seemed to be getting more attention than usual, no doubt due to his success in the tournament. An unnerving number of girls had approached him, asking if he had a spare quill on him and then leave giggling when handed one. He was starting to run out of quills. Then, someone had sent him chocolate cauldrons in the morning post. And three people, one of them even a Slytherin, had asked him out.

Harry didn’t know what was worse: dealing with the Triwizard tasks or all the romantic attention.

Most unnerving of all was the fact that when Cho and Cedric passed him in the corridors holding hands, he barely glanced at them. Instead, his eyes sought out Malfoy. Harry's mind had been reeling ever since the second task. For possibly the first time in his life, he was grateful to Malfoy, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Part of him felt he ought to thank him in person. But how would he get him alone without attracting suspicion? And what would he even say? He could send him a gift. But what could he get one of the richest people in the school?

Valentine’s Day happened to fall on a double Potions lesson, and Harry, with his mind on hearts and chocolates, found it somewhat unbearable to be in the same room as Malfoy for two hours, even if they weren’t near enough to talk.

Halfway into the class, while Harry was busy counting his number of stirs, the door to the dungeons burst open and in strode a squat dwarf, who was adorned in glittering golden wings and was carrying a miniature harp. Something about the dwarf seemed familiar. Harry couldn’t place it, but he knew he’d seen him before . . .

“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ’Arry Potter,” the dwarf announced.

There was a moment of silence. Then it all clicked into place. Second year. Lockhart. The horribly embarrassing poem.

“No . . . No! Please no,” Harry begged as the dwarf strummed a chord on the harp.

He turned desperately to Snape, who he was certain would have murdered the dwarf on the spot, had he arrived for any other student. To Harry’s dismay, Snape grinned cruelly and said, “Go on.”

Harry folded his arms onto the table and buried his face into them as the dwarf started to sing:

With the year just begun, the Cup’s favor he won,

And then he defeated the dragon.

He vanquished the lake. He makes my heart ache!

To our Triwizard champ, raise a flagon!

Trudging footfalls left the dungeon, and Harry raised his head cautiously to find heart-shaped confetti fluttering down onto him, the dungeon in an almost painful silence.

All of the Slytherins, including Malfoy, and quite a few Gryffindors were positively red from holding back laughter. Seamus appeared to have cast a silencing spell on himself, and Blaise Zabini hastily excused himself due to a coughing fit that fooled no one. Even Hermione sat with her lips pressed firmly together, her face screwed up tightly.

From the front of the classroom, Snape walked over, his slow footsteps echoing against the stone one by one. He stopped in front of Harry. Harry closed his eyes, bracing himself.

"As if being a Triwizard champion wasn’t enough attention for you. I think it’ll be twenty points from Gryffindor this time.”

As soon as the bell rang, Harry threw his books into his bag and trudged miserably back to Gryffindor Tower, the song spreading like wildfire through the corridors.

Somehow he suspected it wasn’t Ginny who had sent it this time.

“You think it was Malfoy?” Ron said when Harry voiced his suspicions. “Come on mate, he’s not behind every weird thing that happens to you. Besides, didn’t he stop all that weird stuff?”

Harry scratched the back of his head guiltily. It had been a long time since the incident in corridor when Malfoy asked him on a date to Hogsmeade, and he hadn’t told Ron or Hermione about the gillyweed or the Yule Ball.

In their next Potions lesson, which was thankfully free of harp-wielding dwarfs, Harry took the opportunity while Ron and Hermione were distracted by whatever it was that was causing Ron’s cauldron to steam violently to write his first note to Malfoy.

How long did it take you to come up with that song?

He sent it zooming across the room and watched warily as Malfoy opened it, smirked, and bent over the desk to scratch out a reply. A minute later, the note came zooming back, and Harry opened it under the table to find a cartoon face that was unmistakably Draco's blowing him a kiss. Rolling his eyes, he scrunched it up. Ron nudged his elbow in question, but Harry merely groaned and shook his head, glaring at Malfoy’s shaking back.

As summer approached, many strange things happened: Harry had a bizarre encounter with Barty Crouch outside of Hagrid's hut, a thought-provoking trip through the Pensieve in Dumbledore’s office, and a horrible nightmare of Voldemort in Divination class. But he’d also gotten to see Sirius, which did a lot to improve his mood. However, nothing new transpired with Malfoy, and Harry wondered whether he had gotten bored with him.

It was during a regular Potions class when Malfoy appeared in front of Harry, asking casually, “Can I borrow a quill, Babe? I’ve lost mine.”

Ron gave a disgusted huff. "Again?"

Unprepared after months of being ignored, Harry glared at him. “Get lost, Malfoy.”

Draco tutted. “Is that any way to speak to me?” With a manic grin on his face, he reached out to Harry's hair. Harry didn't know whether it was that he had grown used to these sudden goes for his hair, or whether it was the stress of all the strange things happening to him, but a peculiar sense of calm came over him, and instead of flinching away like he usually did, this time he stayed put and let Malfoy bury his fingers into it. Immediately, Malfoy stiffened, the smirk dropping almost comically from his face. For a moment, the hand paused in Harry's hair as if not quite sure what to do before it swept back and trailed awkwardly past his ear. Too quickly, Malfoy drew his hand back.

Feeling ridiculously triumphant at having turned the tables, Harry held out his own quill to him. “Sure, you can have one. Darling.”

The word seemed to reverberate between them, the tone perfectly balanced between coy and casual. It shocked even Harry.

Panic flashed through Malfoy's gray eyes. Hesitating, he snatched the quill from Harry’s hand and then stalked back to his table.

“That was brilliant, Harry!” Ron crowed, as Harry bent to retrieve another quill from his bag. “When did you get so good at flirting? That should shut him up for a while, don’t you think? Blimey, that was amazing. But I thought he was done with all that rubbish.”

Harry grinned, pleased with himself, and kind of hoping that Malfoy was not done with “all that rubbish.”

As June approached, preparations for the Third Task took up every spare inch of Harry’s mind. Thanks to Ron and Hermione, he had gotten quite good at a number of new spells, but he couldn’t shake the constant urge to practice.

The night before the task, Harry had commandeered one of the Transfiguration classrooms to practice jinxes one last time. He suspected that Professor McGonagall knew he was there and had told Filch and Peeves to steer clear, for which he was very grateful.

The extra practice helped to ease his nerves, but by one o’clock in the morning, Harry admitted that it was time to call it a night and get some sleep. Still running through the spells in his mind, he swung the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and turned out into the corridor—and immediately froze when he saw Malfoy standing there, alert, his eyes roving over the air in front of him.

“I know you’re there, Potter. Where are you?”

What in Merlin's name was Malfoy doing there? Harry pulled back the hood of the Cloak, and Malfoy jumped at the sudden appearance of his disembodied head. Feeling another short stab of victory, Harry chortled as he removed the Cloak entirely.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Waiting for you,” Malfoy replied.

“How did you know I was here?”

“You’re far less subtle than you think. And far noisier.”

Harry frowned. “Didn’t you run into Filch or Peeves at all?”

Malfoy smirked. “Please. You can hear that geezer from a mile away. And as for Peeves, that's easy. I just bribed him with a bag of dung bombs.”

Harry had to admit he was impressed—if also very uneasy at the prospect of being alone with Malfoy in a deserted corridor at night. “So what do you want?”

Malfoy took a step forward. Harry took a step back.

Malfoy grinned. “Scared, Potter?”

“No,” Harry replied automatically. “Of what?” he tacked on.

Malfoy stepped forward again. Harry forced himself to stay still. Malfoy took another step, bringing him right in front of Harry.

The moonlight gleamed off of his hair, casting his face in a silvery glow, making him look ethereal. Draco raised a hand—Harry noticed his fingers shaking slightly—and placed it firmly against the side of Harry’s head. Harry took a sharp breath in, wanting to bite out a retort that it seemed like Malfoy was the one who was scared—but suddenly his tongue didn't seem to be working.

Very slowly, Draco leaned in until his face was only an inch away. Harry’s breathing all but stopped. What was he doing? Because it seemed like he was about to—

Draco kissed him.

Harry remembered just in time to close his eyes, and then smooth lips were on his. Draco pressed in softly, exhaling gently. His nose was touching Harry’s cheek, his hand gripping his hair, and Harry’s stomach was swooping, just like it did when he went flying. Draco stayed for a second more, and then he pulled back, the sound of their lips releasing seeming far too loud in the quiet corridor.

Harry opened his eyes and stared stupidly at him, blinking. It was his first kiss. And it was with a boy! And Draco Malfoy for that matter. A mad desire compelled him to go back in, kiss him again. Even though Draco had moved slowly and the kiss had lasted a good number of seconds, it all felt rushed and over far too quickly.

“Good luck tomorrow, Potter,” Draco said quietly. Then he spun around and stalked back down the corridor, his robes billowing silently.

Harry watched him leave, too stunned to do anything. The second it was over, the kiss had started replaying in his head, and was now on a loop. He brought his hand unconsciously to his lips but didn’t touch them, not wanting to disturb the faint impression he still felt from Draco’s lips.

Suddenly he didn’t want to go back to the dormitory. He wanted to race back down the corridor, catch up to Draco, and kiss him again. Could he do that? Harry started forward, breaking into a run. He tore down the corridors after him, making far too much noise than he should and even heading down a few flights toward the Slytherin common room. But Malfoy had disappeared.

Somewhere along the third floor Harry slowed to a halt. Perhaps it was for the best that he hadn't caught up to Draco. What would he have done anyway? Would he really have kissed him again? Or would he have panicked and hexed him instead? Probably panicked and hexed him instead.

Reluctantly, Harry made his way back to Gryffindor Tower. He ducked through the portrait of the Pink Lady, headed upstairs, crawled into his bed, and lay staring at the ceiling.

Reducto, Impedimenta, Protego, Stupefy, he chanted in his head, trying to focus on the final task.

Reducto, Impedimenta, Protego, Stupefy, he thought again, hoping it would turn into a mantra that would put him to sleep.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.

The next morning, Harry woke still chanting spells in his head. In what seemed like no time at all, he was facing the wild hedges that rose to the sky and plunging head-on into the maze, determined and confident.

But then he and Cedric had reached for the cup together. And then they had been transported. And then Cedric had died, and Harry had witnessed Voldemort returning to life. Had brought Cedric’s body back, screaming as he clung to him. Had discovered the horrible truth about Professor Moody, and announced to the world that the worst had happened.

In a single night, Harry’s world had been turned upside down in ways far worse than ever before. He hadn’t simply defeated Voldemort and let him crawl back into a hole to hide for another year. Voldemort was back now, for good.

Harry left for the Dursleys’, preoccupied and on edge. It was only when he reached Privet Drive and had settled into an uneasy summer that he realized he hadn’t seen Draco after the challenge. He had been too preoccupied to look for him at the end-of-of-year feast and hadn’t run into him on the Hogwarts Express. In fact, the last time he could recall seeing him was that night before the Third Task, when Malfoy had kissed him and whispered good luck.

That was before. Before the portkey and Peter Pettigrew walking forward slowly with a bundle in his arms. Before Cedric had died and Harry nearly along with him. Before Voldemort had risen from the cauldron. Before the wizarding world was placed once again in mortal peril.

Before he had seen Lucius Malfoy in the graveyard.

Before he’d remembered what Draco’s family, and perhaps Draco himself, was capable of.

And now . . .

Well now everything had changed.